By Rosemary Okafor
She sat in front of the mirror, starring at her second identity, one that defined who she was now, a package that was handed over to her alongside the name she bore.
Scarlett Brownson. Perfect. Better than her native name, Obiageliaku.
“That’s a mouthful. Who will want to pronounce that?” Madame Charlotte, the woman that received her at the airport eight years ago had spatted, looking at her passport. The Indian woman had almost shredded her tongue pronouncing the name.
It wasn’t easy finding a name that suits her. “You have the skin of an Egyptian goddess— and a suspicious kind of beauty that powerful men would die to explore,” Madame had said. Some few hours later, they settled for the name Scarlett.
Eight years now, she wore that name proudly like a badge, her native name and her heritage forgotten as she had concentrated on building a new identity for herself. It was tough but she succeeded in erasing every trace of Nigerianness in her. With her near-perfect American accent, she could be mistaken for a Black American.
It wasn’t long before she became a costly commodity meant for only the rich and the affluent, making a lot of money for Madame Charlotte and the mysterious Mr. P. Then one day, she became wiser and demanded for freedom.
Freedom. Did she know the meaning of that word? Even with everything she’d gotten, rot still coiled around her like a burning chain.
Scarlett picked a red lipstick out of many scattered on the table and lavishly ran it through her lips, smacking, pouting, and twisting her mouth from side to side. Satisfied, she picked her blond deep curly wig, fitted it perfectly on her head, and combed the curls with her fingers.
Perfect. Tonight, she’d transform into a dominant bitch. She had picked randomly as this client never specifies how he would want her to present herself, he never did, unlike the others. “I like surprises, Scarlett, wow me,” he would always say. But most times, this client, Bernard Swift, a smart politician— smart because his dirty businesses had never been on the media— had his own sackful of surprises. Yet, she had come to learn how to be comfortable with him and his demands. He was one of her most generous clients and had been treating her like a queen, a treatment she’d reciprocated in her own little way. Bernard was the only client she visited without a mask.
She checked her phone to confirm the location of the meeting. Danforth, A five hours drive from Montreal. Good enough Bernard was sending his driver over to pick her up.
“It’s the Limo or you will have to make do with one of the girls,” she had demanded.
“Of course, it’s the limo I am sending.”
With half of thirty thousand dollars cooling in her account, the balance to be paid once she got there, Scarlett knew the big man didn’t want to play around with the girls, it was her he needed for the night not her girls, and he knew she didn’t come cheap.
Yes. She ran her own cartel now. Not as strict and cut-throat as Charlotte and Mr. Ps’. Her girls were stylish, good-looking career women by day— hairdressers, models, pub singers, designers. They could run solo and only answered to her when she needed any of her rich, famous, and powerful clients, satisfied. And she made sure they got paid every penny due to them after a job well done, sometimes with a little extra.
She still got a heart. Taking care of girls who were like her when she had no one to look out for her, was a huge humanitarian act. Without her help, most of those girls would have ended up in deeper shit or with slave masters like Mr. P. But she made sure those naïve ones got hooked to decent men at a very good price. Money, big enough to afford them decent apartments, food, and even tuition. And in return, they owed her nothing.
She pushed her chair backward and delicately stood up, surveying her full image in the mirror with a ghost of a smile, satisfied with the perfect transformation her latest plastic surgery gave to her body- an ass job, done three months ago.
It all started with the nose, a boob job shortly after, then she needed her skin so clear, so chocolate glittery and a periodic skin lasering treatment helped her with that. Finally, with an enlarged backside, giving her the conspicuous hourglass shape, her body was a playground of delight.
She heard a car pulled up in front of her three-bedroom duplex— not large enough though but she took delight in telling anyone who cared to listen that she bought it with her own money. Why wouldn’t she be proud? She had humped uncountable men to get her that. Something a paid job wouldn’t give her in twenty years.
Scarlett was a whore, and she wasn’t ashamed, not anymore. She could wear it as a badge around her neck.
The chauffeur announced his arrival with a hunk. Scarlett grabbed her bag already stuffed with her pantie-host, a lube, a pack of condoms, and some other things that may come in handy. As she made it towards the door, her eyes caught the milk-colored rosary lying carelessly on the bed. Without much thought, she swiped it and shoved it into her handbag.
Her Rosary, now serving as a luck charm, was one of the old traditions she learned from her mother when she was in Nigeria. Just like going for confessions and visiting the blessed sacrament.
She didn’t know why she still kept those traditions, not that they meant anything to her now.
One final check around her room, she switched the bulbs off, locked the door and proceeded downstairs, to the waiting car.
****
“You look like a doll, the most beautiful one.”
Bernard kissed her cheeks delicately and ushered her into the picturesque interior of the ‘Swift’s Palace.’
“And you like dolls,” she purred. Deliberately swaying her million-dollar hips side to side, aware of the pair of eyes ogling at her. She wasn’t surprised, with her long cloak removed and left inside the car that would still take her home, her dress was so mini, she swore that the down part of her butt cheeks was barely covered. The neckline was cut so low that her braless tits nearly jumped out as she leaned forward to great Bernard’s friends.
“I like this particular doll. You.” The baled, black buffy man, rasped into her ears.
“Good. Because this doll wouldn’t want to share you with another.”
“Oh, but I have something else in mind. Something very special for you to night. Come.”
He led her up the thick center rugged staircase into another room. She blinked to get her eyes acclimatized to the dim light coming from the single chandelier that dropped midway from the high palatial designed ceiling.
Settling himself on the sofa, the big black man picked a Cuban cigar from the gold platter on top of a small table before him, caressed it, lit and puffed from the corner of his mouth. The expensive fume drifted over her nose and she sucked it all in. She needed it. Though she had not spent her money buying one of those, had only taken a drag or two from her rich clients when making out.
“If you like drags so much, why don’t you try weeds or cocaine?” Bernard had asked her one of the days they were making out.
“No.” White stuff and weeds weren’t her thing. She’d seen what those substances did to some of the girls at Madame’s place.
The big man patted the space beside him. “Sit with me.” She did. “Closer,” he ordered.
With one leg closed over Bernard’s, Scarlett proceeded to rubbing and smooching all over the man’s body. She was about to grab his erect crotch when the door opened and the two men she greeted downstairs walked in, stripped to their boxers.
“What the…” she took her leg off Bernard and was going to ask why he would allow the men to barge in on them announced. Nobody disturbs the big man when he’s getting some’n. It’s the rule!
A rule that favored her.
“Welcome Gentlemen.” Bernard beamed. “I promised you guys worthy entertainment tonight.” grabbing her face, he kissed her hard in the mouth and pushed her away. “Be a good girl and make us all happy,” he said roughly.
“You want me to take three of you here- at once?” She had prepared for surprises but wasn’t sure she was quite ready for this.
“Don’t be an idiot. You know what these men want.”
Threesomes and orgies were for slave girls at Madame Charlotte’s inn, not for her. She had upgraded, had become classier, and particularly picky in the kind of men she serviced and the kind of Job she accepted.
“I can call one of the girls to service them.” Crossing her leg over the big man’s thigh, her hand stroking his stomach, she tried to persuade him to reason. “You know you don’t like sharing me with anyone. You said that yourself.”
The man burst out in convulsive laughter drawing the other men into a fit. “A whore is a whore,” he said, dragging from his cigar. “A black whore is the worst of them all.”
He called her a black whore? She thought she was his doll? His pretty thing? Now he called her a…
“The men are waiting.” He smoked some more.
“Ben, I am not ready for this.” She was desperate to make him understand, but he laughed some more.
“Okay, I hear you. I will have you alone.”
Phew! She almost brought out her rosary and kissed the cross. “That’s wonderful, Ben.” She had known Bernard Swift and his lavished lifestyle for seven months now. The man had since stuck to her after the first job. He was a man so easy to please. A blow job, marathon crazy sex—he could have it all day and night without fagging out, but never with another man, not to think of three at the same time.
“I want to have you now.” He rasped.
“Here?” fear creeped into her again. She glanced at the other men who now had their boxes down and the pendulous poll between their legs, rigid.
“Please, let’s not do this here, we can go to your room or anywhere secret…”
“Shut your mouth and behave, whore. I have treated you like a princess all this while, but not anymore. You will stay still and do as I say.”
He pulled her up, rolling her dress to her waist. His hand, hard and rough, pressed between her legs. He stabbed his fingers into her and drove up her, hard and fast. With his other hand, he struggled with her dress and pulled it over her head, dumping it on the floor.
“Take me to the room at least. Let this be private.” She whispered in horror.
When was the last time she had it this way? Four years ago? She had vowed that no man would dominate her again, they wouldn’t use her body like a toy, she would call the shots, offer what she could, and give her terms.
“No. I will have you here, now, while they watch. After, I will watch them ravish these beautiful holes of yours.”
Her lungs clogged with soaring disgust mixed with fear and anger.
“You are a whore, it’s high time I started treating you as one.”
No. she was a survivor, a warrior, a businesswoman with class. He should respect her like a woman who knew her worth not a little girl under Madame Charlotte.
But she also knew that whatever she’d chosen to call herself now, what was reflected in the mirror when she looked at herself was only an outer image. She was a whore, everybody knew it. Bernard only took a little longer to state the obvious.
Why did it hurt her so much now? Wasn’t she doing what she used to do before?
Prostitute, hooker, call girl, are all the names that described her profession, it didn’t matter what she coated herself with. She sold her body for the almighty dollar; she was meat to men who could pay.
A high rated whore.
****
Paul
“That was amazing Paul, you did it! The audience was eating out of your palm,” George Oakman, his manager gathered him in his large flabby arms and squeezed, rolling off laughter from his bowel. “Incredible, boy you were an angel out there. You made them believe it was Jesus himself standing on that stage.”
“Thank you, George.”
Paul was yet to learn how to react to compliments. People said he was shy, but the truth was that gleaming and basking while being showered with praises weren’t his thing. Ten years in this, singing his heart out and drawing tears from the eyes of those who listened to his music. Yet, each time he was showered with adoration, he felt awkward.
Nevertheless, he knew George was right. He had worked his bones out for this day, training his voice and rehearsing. Abstaining from food and drinks he feared would affect his pitch. He had also tarried in the presence of the Lord two days before embarking on this journey. His plea:
‘Lord, Give me Toronto. Announce your ownership of me in this concert.’
When his time came, he was overwhelmed by the crowd. For a brief moment, he felt his vulnerability. His inadequacy jolted his whole body. Then he had shut his eyes, allowed a large soothing breath through his lungs, down to his belly. He’d felt it, a surge of spiritual boost.
He’d sung ‘Way maker’ by Sinach, first.
Why the lord wanted him to do that particular song first, beat his imagination. He had fought with the Lord on that decision for the simple reason that it was an old song. Secondly, the piece was done by an African, a Nigerian. How would the people receive it?
The Lord had proven him wrong again.
The sound from the keyboard had permeated into his skin with the surge that catapulted him out of the place, lifting him to stand face to face with the divine.
When he finally opened his eyes, more than half of the crowd were on their knees, hands lifted, heads bowed. Everyone was caught in the spell of the moment. He was caught in his own spell.
It wasn’t excitement he saw as he watched the audience, but longings, hearts thirsty and hungry for the Lord. And that was it— the ultimate, the peak of the night, the reason for this calling. The Lord was using his voice for his glory, giving him the souls of more than fifteen thousand people simultaneously.
When he finally raised his own songs, ‘To your Glory Alone’ and ‘Rescued by grace,’ the crowd went wild. People cried unabashedly.
In all his years of ministration, he’d seen nothing like it.
When it was over, he was drained and in a state of shock. In that moment of unboundedness, devoid of clapping and cheering— just men with their eyes closed, faces lifted up while some had their heads on the ground, worshiping, he knew it would take time for his brain to find the word to adequately express what had just happened.
“I have watched you perform severally; tonight, was magical. Toronto will never forget this night.”
His face moved too slowly to the smile that tugged his muscles, as he gradually took in the sweet effect of what he just did on that stage. He then grinned as relief flooded through him, gradually exorcising the tensions and insecurities of the previous few weeks. He had done it, and it had turned out well.
“I’m amazed too.” He shook his head. The smile still on his face.
“I guess we can afford a small party when we get to the hotel, the crew deserve it.”
“You go ahead with whatever plan. I want to retire for the night.”
George nodded. “And wait for offers to come in tonnes.”
“It’s always offers and money for you, man.”
“Sure, it is. Am I the only person who sees your voice as a gold mine?” Lips downturned, the man shook his head. “Boy, you sure don’t know your worth.”
No, he didn’t. that was why he left all concert bookings, bargaining for payments and logistics, and managing his accounts to George. Oh, George loved money, he could smell it from miles away, the same way he could smell fresh talents even from a rat hole.
It was George’s idea for him to consider a signing deal after watching him sing at The Porter’s House Church many years ago. The man had gone on and on about recording one or two songs, offering to pay for the sections.
But money wasn’t the problem. Paul believed that his talent wasn’t for sale.
“Bullshit.” Ben had spatted.
So began their star-manager journey. George had scouted for openings and hyped him before gospel event planners and organisers—adding a little exaggeration to make him marketable. Spent a lot of his cash on getting his pictures on billboards.
“Ed Sheeran’s lost brother.” Ben would refer to him. It wasn’t the first time anyone had mistaken him for the English pop singer, pointing out his unique ginger red colored hair, his ‘Alice in the wonder land’ cat face, and the pale-white skin that made people easily mistake him for an English man.
Staring at the fifty-one-year-old flabby flesh man occupying a two-man space on the three-sitter SUV, the dome of his head totally bald, but halfway down his scalp, a profusion of blond curls sprouted and luxuriated well past the back of his neck. Paul agreed that if happiness had a face, it would be Georges’.
The rest of the ride back to the hotel was done with the crew squealing and howling their excitement and discussing how they would want to spend more days exploring the amazing city.
But Paul had other things in mind.
A shower. A healthy dinner. And a glass or two of Ariel Chardonnay- his favorite white wine, he was fast getting addicted to that, then he would call home.
His parents must have watched. They always did, except of course when they were seriously engaged with church administration.
His parents. The greatest gift the Lord had given to him, one he would never trade for anything in this whole world.
Though they had received his decision to frolic with the guitar and sing his lungs out with disappointment, they wanted him to take over from his father as the pastor of their local— now a mega church.
But, he preferred this life. He was a mobile pulpit, doing the same thing his father does— only a little differently. With his voice bringing joy, love, laughter, and hope to the ears of those who had forgotten the warmth of such harmony.
